She is Shattered
by Roar-ra
Summary: She has been made and unmade since she can first remember, a sand sculpture, torn down and remade in a new mold to be what any given target wanted and what Russia needed her to be... Clint changed that; he brought her into SHIELD and, eventually, the grains of sand became hardened glass. She is not unmade now, she is shattered.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Shattered

Rating: NC-17

Shattered

"Love you, Nat."

His eyes close as she curses at him to stay with her. The med team takes him away in and she sits in the rubble, waiting, covered in his blood. The crackle in her earpiece minutes later confirms her worst fears; Hawkeye is down. Clint Barton is dead.

She has been made and unmade since she can first remember, a sand sculpture, torn down and remade in a new mold to be what any given target wanted and what Russia needed her to be. You are a diplomat's daughter. You are an art student visiting Russia from Paris. You are a dilettante bisexual from Rome. Clint changed that; he brought her into SHIELD and, eventually, the grains of sand became hardened glass. She is not unmade now, she is shattered.

**Steve Rogers**

72 hours after Hawkeye dies the Black Widow vanishes without a trace, it's not happenstance she's waited that long.

They managed to revive Coulson after 48 hours of cellular reconstruction work I don't even want to think about. Death is occasionally curable at SHIELD, and if you're a super soldier, you can be on ice for decades, but for humans, after three days… you're not coming back.

Fury tells me to back off, to give her some space. Says she'll return when she's ready. I want to tell him to shove it, but that's not in my nature. This is my team, they are my responsibility. I've already failed her once, I led them into the situation that got Hawkeye killed, I can't fail her again. Every night I'm up till three tracking her.

Two days later, we start getting the reports. Unauthorized termination of suspected HYDRA contacts. Ones associated with the sect responsible for Clint Barton's death.

Fury calls me into his office. "Bet you thought I didn't know about the programs you've been running all night." I nod, but refuse to apologize. "I get cc'd on them before you do. " He hands me a file. "She's been spotted in Istanbul. Bring her home."

**Natasha Romanov**

Captain _fucking_ America thinks I don't know he's here, but the whirling disco lights reflect in his blonde hair like a beacon, pointing the way to safety. Fuck safety. Clint is dead and I am done following orders. I've come here for one of the top suppliers of hashish in western Turkey; he's killed dozens of innocents, but I don't give a fuck about that - so have I. The problem is, he's also unknowingly funneled millions of euros in to HYDRA's bank accounts. That's his death warrant. The heroin-skinny dark haired man approaches and offers to buy me a drink. I smile back, and the widow begins weaving her web. I've decided to start fucking them before I kill them… It'll solve two needs at once. It was my MO in Russia, before Cli- before SHIELD. I'm going back to my old ways.

Suddenly, Rogers is in front of us. "Hunh?" says my date du nuit. I smile. So he is as stupid as he looks. Good.

"Excuse me, Miss," Cap barks in his best team leader voice. "May I have a word with you?"

"I'm off duty," I whisper into his ear with smile. I step back, draping myself around my new 'friend.' Cap's eyes darken and he frowns. He's not looking too bad himself tonight, it's one of less than a handful of times I've seen him out of SHIELD-issued gear, casual grey button down shirt over a T-shirt stretched over taut muscles, broad shoulders concealed under a deep-brown leather jacket. _Jesus, Romanov_, I think to myself, _your mind is in the gutter tonight_.

"I insist," he growls between clenched teeth.

"Hey buddy," says my new pal, "the lady don't wanna talk to you. Now buzz off, we got business to attend to." He looks down at me, leering. I squirm against him in encouragement.

"Natasha."

I look up in surprise, both at Rogers use of my first name and the gentle tone with which he speaks it.

"Is this..." he jerks his head toward the dealer. "Is this really what you want? Is this really going to help anything?"

Goddamn. Goddamn it to hell.

I reach over and viciously pull his head down to mine, my nails bite into the back of his neck as I hiss. "This is MY life, _Captain_! What can you give me? Another mission, another cause, another chance to die saving a world I no longer give a shit about? Is that all you can offer me?"

Rogers grabs my hand and jerks me against him. He looks unsure of how to get me out of here. I can smell his clean male scent and shiver as the tips of my breast are crushed against his hard chest. He doesn't say anything, but his lips are pulled back from his teeth, growling with frustration. And then he kisses me. For a man usually so gentle there's nothing nice or polite about this kiss, it's rough, demanding and unfamiliar. Barton was undemanding and familiar. I want to forget Barton.

"Hey!" whines my date, not about to bow out gracefully, not when he's got a live one on the line. "Hey! What the fuck you doin'?"

Rogers grabs my mark by the scruff of the neck, and I've decided on a change a plan. A clear dart the size of a mosquito appears on the dealer's neck, and then melts away completely. Cap notices and glares at me, I smile, hiding the tiny air gun between my knuckles. We both know he'll be dead in by the end of the night. Mission accomplished… One of them anyway.

"Back off," Rogers hisses, his eyes as dark and deadly. "Find another date."

He releases the mark, who rubs his shoulder and neck and pouts prettily. "Babe?" he mewls, pleadingly.

"Yeah, back off. Something's come up." I wrap one arm around Cap 's neck and rub my other hand against the front of his faded jeans. _Oh my, something certainly has._

It seems impossible, but Steve Rogers back straightens up even stiffer. He grabs my wrist again, and the pain shoots up my arm like fire.

"We're getting out of here," he growls.

My thoughts exactly.

**Steve Rogers**

Her feet are on the dashboard, and I stifle the impulse to tell her to get them the hell down, sit up straight and fasten her seatbelt. Her next movement makes me regret that I hadn't followed that impulse. She kicks off her right shoe, then the left. Her bare feet hang in the air for a moment, and I am mesmerized by how small and white they are. I wrench my eyes back to the road, reminding myself to stay on the left. Getting into an accident in Turkey with the agent you were assigned to retrieve would not look good on your permanent record, Steve.

But all coherent thought leaves me as Natasha's pretty little feet settle over my lap, the heels rubbing insistently against me. My cock, still semi-hard from her touch only minutes before, jerks back to full-alert status. The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh.

_What the fuck have I gotten myself into? _I think. I grab her ankles and shove them off me, leaving my right arm between us as a barrier.

"_Agent _Romanov," I say, emphasizing the 'agent,' "I am putting you to bed-" I raise my voice over the low sultry laugh this statement produces, "-and then we are going back to Manhattan! And we will forget this incident ever happened. On Monday, I'm going to refer you to a SHIELD counselor, so you can deal with your grief-"

"Oh, but I know the perfect way to deal with my grief, Captain, I really do."

She's moving across the seat, getting closer, slow and sinuous as a cat.

"And I'm afraid the only person-the _only_ person-who can help me with that is you-"

My right hand comes up to block her progress as she tries to crawl into my lap. Undaunted, she takes my hand in both of hers, nipping at the knuckles, drawing her nails along the sensitive palm, and finally, slowly, taking my middle finger in between her rosebud lips and flicks her tongue across the top.

Oh God, Rogers, I think to myself. You're a dead man.

She's making me lose control and I'm suddenly angry. Angry with myself for what's become of my team, one agent dead and the other gone rouge murdering and seducing out of grief without a second thought.

"Is this how you honor Barton's memory, Agent Romanov, taking strangers to bed, by trying to seduce me?" I'm not normally a cruel man, but I have to get her away from me. It's too much, she's too close, and I need to reinstate control over the situation.

The words hits home, and she recoils. "Fuck you, Captain." Venom drips from the words. "You sent him to his death. Never speak to me about him again." She opens the door and leaps out of the moving vehicle. Rolling to a standing position, I watch her flip me the bird from the rear view mirror.

Great job, Rogers. I'm sure Fury will give you a commendation for this one.

The building where she is staying is less than three blocks away. I park and head to the penthouse. I know Clint has used this as a retreat before, because he has a space on the roof with all his essentials.

I follow my instincts and find her in the Hawk's nest. She's staring sightlessly in past me, out into the darkness below.

I reach out to touch her shoulder and she jerks away.

"Don't touch me! Leave me alone."

God, I'm terrible at this. She hunches over and falls in on her self, lost.

I watch the best agent I've every worked with break under the weight of his loss and feel my heart break as well.

I reach for her hand. "Please–"

And suddenly I'm spun around, the upper half of my body dangling off the roof. Her eyes burn into mine.

"I told you not to touch me, _CAPTAIN_."

Looking down I see the streetlights flicker hundreds of feet below. I give my odds of surviving the fall about 50/50.

"You sent us in. _YOU GOT HIM KILLED_"

I can only look at her and tell the truth. "Yes. We both did." She is taken aback. "I led us in there, but we both know he took that blast because of you." The wind whips around me as I look at the pavement below. A not-insignificant part of me wants her to let me fall. "You didn't see it coming so he jumped in the way. I'm not saying he was wrong to do it, but don't kid yourself, Widow - his blood is on both of our hands."

Her eyes fill with tears, real tears, not the beautiful crocodile ones I've seen her produce on command. It's horrible, terrifying and heartbreaking. "I know." The whisper is barely audible as she looks down at me. "I know."

She pulls me back onto the roof, and tries to push me away, but I won't, can't, let her go. Pulling her into my arms, we sink down onto the gravel and sob together.

"It's ok, everything is going to be alright." Stupid, useless platitudes, but the soothing sound of my voice seem to be having the desired effect. She seems to be calming down; the sobs turn in to whimpers then sighs.

"He loved me, Steve, and I never got a chance to say - I should have told him -"

"He knew." I smile at her. "You never needed to say it."

We stay like that for a few moments, taking strength and forgiveness from each other's embrace. I give in to a selfish impulse and breathe in the sent of her hair as she presses against me.

Grief, I realize, is a powerful aphrodisiac as she looks up, eyes echoing the desire in mine.

My traitorous body responds to having her in my lap, even if it is for all the wrong reasons. I want her and I'm angry, not a good combination. I'm angry with myself for wanting her, angry with her for being so ungodly desirable and, most of all, furious at Clint for dying and leaving Natasha and I alone without him.

"Steve..." Her body shifts slightly as she lifts her face to mine, her tearful blue eyes close just before our lips come together. Oh Fuck! I hadn't meant to kiss her. Or had she kissed me? But it's all right. I can handle this, I can be comforting and kindly and-then she opens her mouth under mine, and the shock of sensation makes me gasp. She tastes so sweet, and she's making the most erotic little sounds as she writhes in my lap...

She's in love with a man who died saving her less than a week ago, she's my team mate, and rule #1 is that you don't get emotionally compromised with people you send into life and death situations. There are a million and one reasons I should stop this. And somehow, with her hot, sweet mouth against mine, I don't give a damn about any of them.

She is now kissing up my neck and nibbling on my earlobe, my hips involuntarily thrust up, grinding my erection against her ass. Oh fuck!

I groan as I disentangle her from my lap. "Natasha, we can't do this." Oh thank god, my voice works and my professionalism and self control rears it's slightly tardy head.

"Don't you want this?"

As if the erection pressing against her ass hadn't been answer enough.

"You're not thinking straight. Let's get back to headquarters and we'll deal with this later." I try not to be distracted by the flush of her skin or the way her lips part as she pants for breath. Jesus Christ she's panting!

"I know how to deal with this." She straddles my lap. "And I know exactly how to work through my grief." She runs her slender, elegant fingers through my hair. "Please Steve, make me forget."

My conscience is on vacation. I am insane. I am damned. The gentleman I was raised to be is squashed beneath my overwhelming need for her. I pull the temptress tormenting me into my arms and kiss her brutally. She is breathing heavily, as am I, but all powers of speech have left us. I have never felt such lust in my entire life, and it controls me, refusing to release my better judgment from its steely grip.

She reaches out clawing for my shirt, but desire and desperation make her fingers clumsy. Her patience wears thin and the buttons bounce all over the floor as she rips it off, I quickly remove my tee shirt before it meets the same fate. She licks her lips at the sight of my bare chest, delicate nails run down my abs, her lips follow the same path nipping playfully.

I can't take this teasing anymore; I grab her ass and lift her up 'til her center is directly against my cock. Her legs wrap around my waist as I push her to the nearest wall and pin her body to it with my weight. I move my hands up to her waist and slide them under her tee shirt, her skin is makes silk feel like burlap. I lift the garment from her gently and her ripe breasts are suddenly in front of my nose. She's not wearing a bra.

I run my tongue in circles around her nipples, biting lightly. She whimpers and arches against me.

"Please, Cap - Put me down."

Oh shit, she doesn't want this... What did I almost do?

I put her down dazedly. "Natasha, I'm so sorry. I didn-" I'm abruptly shoved against the wall.

"Shhh." Her fingers move downward across my chest and to my belt buckle. My mouth drops open as she deftly unbuckles it and kneels before me.

"Nuuuh, Natasha..." That was eloquent Steve, really eloquent.

The boxers are off in one quick movement. She looks up at me with a surprised smile and raises one eyebrow "Let's hear it for genetic enhancements," I can't resist a smirk. Oh, Christ, she touches me. The smirk disappears. She's so gentle, almost hesitant. The tip of her tongue slides lightly up the underside of my cock. It's a light sensation, but enough to make me groan. She licks again, from the base all the way up the shaft, over the ridge and the head with the flat of her tongue. I bite back a curse.

She swirls her tongue around my engorged shaft. A long moan comes from my throat and I reach out to grab the wall behind me with one hand, the other caressing her silky red curls. I try to tell her that she doesn't need to do this, but what comes out is "Ohhhyesss."

She makes a satisfied sound. "Mmmm."

Oh well, I suppose it's a close to conversation as we're going to get at this point. My knees have buckled and I rely completely on the wall for support. I can feel my cock throbbing against the back of her throat, and she's only about 3/4 of the way down my shaft. Her hands come around to cup my ass and she takes a long breath. Before my mind can even begin to comprehend what she's going to do, I feel my cock slide past the resistance and Natasha Romanov deep throats me until her lips are at the base of my cock.

Oh God, I'm going to hell for this but it's worth it.

My brain starts to short circuit and I have to get her to stop or it's going to be over before it even begins. I lift her off the ground and push her against the wall. She gasps as I force my tongue in her talented mouth. I'm devouring her, trying to drive all thoughts of Clint from both our minds.

I carry her over Clint's rooftop nest – it has a bed. Jesus Christ, I'm going to fuck Natasha Romanov on Clint Barton's Bed.

I lay her down gently his bed. Reaching down, I slowly unbutton her jeans. I can feel how wet she is through the black silk of her panties. Jesus, I'm can't believe I'm doing this. She's Hawkeye's girl and I'm stripping her bare before his body is even cold.

She raises her hips to help me peel off her jeans. My fingers venture down her panties and find her clit, tracing small circles with two fingers, I can feel her tighten with pleasure. I'm killing myself with guilt, yet I can't stop.

"Natasha, we shouldn't, it's not right," I whisper hoarsely, tearing my hands away from her body. I'm a liar and I know it. All I want is to bury myself in her.

She arches against me and guides my hand back to her silk panties. "Rip them off, Captain."

The swatch of black silk is torn from her frame faster than an arrow. What little rational thought I had left flees abruptly. Lust is a searing hot knife screaming to be quenched. I position myself between her legs and just as I'm about to enter her, I hear her whisper. "I'm sorry, Clint."

She won't meet my eyes. I can't do this. This was supposed to be him, not me, here with her. I begin to pull away and she reaches around, pulling my neck back down, she now meets my eyes and forces me to watch her.

"You think I don't know what I want? You think I never thought about you even when he was alive? I'll show you how I feel you self-righteous jerk."

She flips me over so I'm sitting on the bed. She kisses me, a kiss full of lust, anger, grief, helplessness and, God help me, even love. Our tongues meet in a dance of rage and need. I can't speak, I can't think, I can't keep fighting a war I never wanted to win in the first place.

"I want you, Captain... Please." Tears well up in her eyes. "Denying us what we both want won't bring Clint back." Her words hit home with the accuracy of Hawkeye's arrows. "Steve." The pale light glints off a tear marring her cheek. "Please don't make me beg."

I can deny her nothing.

Fighting every instinct to mindlessly bury myself inside her. I press against her hot, wet center, lightheaded with desire. I rub and stroke her clit till she's making those incredibly sexy mewing, gasping noises once more. I put a finger inside her and she writhes under me.

Having a woman who's lovesick and mourning another man moaning beneath me should make me feel like a monster. And it does, but it also gives me a terrible rush of power. I'm here, not him, she's making these noises for ME. I know she's close, I increase the pressure on and she comes, arching up off Clint's bed in pleasure.

"Yes... - More" Her nails rake down my back hard - drawing blood. My blood, our sweat and her tears, all meld together on his bed - how fitting.

I roll her beneath me, entering in one powerful thrust. And for a few moments, there is no Black Widow, no Captain America, and there never was a Hawkeye. There is simply two people locked in a primal embrace, and nothing can touch us, not even Clint's ghost.

She throws back her head and a blood flush comes over her face and neck. Her tiny body goes taut with a ragged cry and I completely lose control. I draw up her perfect ass with my left arm, lifting her and forcing her down on me, then slamming her under the full weight of my body, and keeping her lips on mine.

We are caught like that together in a dark animalistic raw connection, as she explodes around me, and I hold back nothing, I fuck her without restraint, all the lust, anger, love and grief comes pouring out at that moment. My lover screams with pleasure and I cannot help but do the same. Humans were not meant to feel this much, this quickly. We collapse together, exhausted and neither of us can fight the dark, sweet refuge of sleep.

Minutes or hours could have passed, I can't tell. I wake to find her stroking my cheek.

"Are you all right?"

She smiles. "Thank you for bringing me back, Steve." She takes my head in her hands and kisses me. "Спасибо." It's the most intimate moment we've shared. She stands and I admire her lithe form as she dresses. She shows no false modesty in her nakedness, and neither regret nor hesitation about what happened between us. She hands me my button-less shirt. "Sorry about that"

"It was well worth it," I smile, dressing quickly.

The slamming of the rooftop door interrupts her response. Footsteps come racing up the stairs. _What the hell...?_

I turn and find myself face to face with a dead man. I wonder for a moment if he's a ghost, sent to haunt me like Hamlet's father for the sins I've so recently committed against him.

Natasha pales. "Clint, is that really you?"

Hmm, guess not then.

She sways slightly and he runs to her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Clint lifts her off the ground and holds her like he has no intention of ever letting her go.

I tap down the raging jealousy that wants to howl at the unfairness of this miracle. Instead, I discretely try to retrieve my shirt buttons off the ground and use my tie to keep my shirt together. I seem to be missing a couple buttons. Oh well, with the jacket on I don't think it too noticeable.

Clint regretfully puts her down and comes over to give me a hug. I feel like a big jerk for being jealous, but that doesn't make it go away.

"Captain, I'm so glad to see you!"

He claps me on the shoulder and I look at him in wonder. "What the hell happened, Hawkeye?"

He gives a small shrug. "Apparently Fury, Banner and Stark stretched the 72 hour mark to 96. By the time the were ready to tell anyone, you were both gone, so Fury gave me a lift to your current mission location."

I'm going to fucking kill Nick Fury.

Clint looks at the two of us closely for the first time.

"Is everything all right?"

Natasha looks at me. I know exactly what she wants. "Besides losing a member of my team this week, which seems to have remedied itself - everything's fine." Natasha and I will pretend that nothing happened, this will be our secret.

Clint takes Natasha in his arms again and just looks at her as though trying to memorize every detail.

They make a perfect couple. I don't complain. I can see the love in his eyes when he looks at her, and when she looks at him.

Despite the intensity of our encounter, she loves him. I accept this. I'm a big boy.

But I know Hawkeye; he'll find a way to fuck this up. I know it deep in my bones. He'll try to hard to protect her and get too angry when she puts herself at risk. He'll push for too much of her, and she'll resent it.

Clint Barton will find a way to screw up the best thing that could ever have happened to him.

I'm a patient man. I can wait.

Finis.

Thanks a million to djliopleurodon for being such a fantastic beta and creative bouncing board.

Did you know people who comment are 99% more likely to win the lottery and marry Johnny Depp? It's true!


	2. Chapter 2

Sniper Soldier Spy

Rating: NC-17! (If you thought 'Shattered' was bad, you ain't seen nothing yet!). Pairing: Clint/Natasha (though avid shippers be warned), Steve/ Natasha

What has gone before... Reading 'Shattered' is recommended, but not required. In short; Clint died, Natasha handled his death badly and ended up horizontal with Cap after he went after her. Clint remarkably came back to life, and no one told Clint what happened while he was gone.

**Sniper**

He watches. Targets. Marks. Threats. Allies. And her.

He watches her.

A single task. A single goal; protect her. A new threat is brewing, one that he cannot solve with an arrow. Patience, strategy and distance are his friends, he continues to watch her, even as his motives change.

There's something about coming back from the dead that makes you think 'Everything, from this moment forward is going to be perfect.' I was so close to right... so close, and yet so far.

I stare at the objects in my hand. Rolling them across my knuckles, watching them appear and disappear. It's just couple of buttons, a couple of small grey buttons matching the color of Captain America's shirt. I can't help but recall how Rogers was picking some small bits off the roof last night while I was had Natasha in my arms. Can't help remembering how disheveled they both looked... How did our team leader lose all the buttons on his shirt while comforting Natasha over MY death?

I might have overlooked it, but then... last night as Nat and I were lying here on the roof, she fell asleep in my arms. She was exhausted – hadn't slept since my death a week ago. But the thing is, when Nat reaches a certain level of exhaustion, she sometimes talks in her sleep. At first she whispered my name and I smiled, brushing a calloused finger against her cheek. Then she murmured something that made my blood run cold. 'Steve- Please.' It didn't sound like a casual request, it sounded like a lover's plea. I want to believe that these are all just random coincidences, I want to believe that it means nothing. I really, really do.

I can't ask Natasha, I'll sound like a jealous fool. And besides she'll probably gut with a spork for mentioning anything having to do with emotions- it's really not her strong suit.

The quinjet will be here to take us back to Manhattan soon, I should just leave it the hell alone.

"Clint? You there?" "Up here Cap."

I watch with a touch of envy as he gracefully ascends the stairs to the roof. He's the perfect soldier, not even a little out of breath after running up 30 flights of stairs, and, thanks to the serum running through his veins, he'll probably never age, or at least the process is slowed down till it makes almost no difference, just like Nat... Is the mutual physical perfection and immortality why she might have... _Stop jumping to conclusions Barton._

"Fury just called. They're ahead of schedule, so we're headed back to New York in an hour. How are you holding up?" The concern in his face makes me feel like a jerk.

"Pretty good for a dead man, right?" My tone and smile feels forced. Steve notices, and looks at me quizzically. "Steve... What happened when you went to the club to retrieve Nat last night?"

Steve looks surprised and a flash of worry crosses his face before he composes it and frowns. I don't like this at all.

Without giving him a chance to reply, I toss him the two buttons. "I found these. Do they belong to you?"

He shrugs uncomfortably. "Looks like, I wonder how I lost them." "I wonder how you lost them it in my bed?"

He looks at me sharply. "Clint, are you accusing me of something?" His normally good-humored voice changes, it's lower, more dangerous.

I have to be honest with him, and hope he returns the favor. "What happened when you went to extract Nat last night?"

"She was out of her mind with grief; acting crazy! Do you think I would take advantage of her at a time like that?" He seems so affronted, I blush.

What am I thinking? It's hardly any evidence at all really. Just a few buttons and a sleepy whisper. Pull yourself together, Barton.

He turns his back to me and I reach out and clasp his shoulder in apology. "Sorry Cap, I don't' know why but this, combined with something she said in her sleep last night... It's been eating at me."

Steve shrugs away from my hand with a slight wince of pain. Something is wrong with his shoulder. I look closer and see a set of indentations on his neck

No.

I wish I hadn't done that. I suddenly wish I'd never found those buttons, never heard her moan his name, never touched his shoulder and most of all NEVER seen the set of four indents on the side of his neck – I know those marks because I've seen them on the necks of men after she's kissed them especially forcefully.

Without thinking, I tear the material of his shirt, exposing his shoulder and my world is upended. I stagger back as I see the bloody lines marring his shoulder and down his back.

I know those scratches, Natasha's fingernails. Glaring evidence of their betrayal.

"Bastard." The horrified whisper is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"Clint? Please..." Cap tries to talk me down, speaking gently, he's backing away slowly.

"What did you do to her?" It takes every iota of self-control to keep the words from becoming a scream.

His eyes widen in shock. "Barton, you're jumping to wild conclusions here-"

"Fuck you Captain, I know those marks!"

His eyes flash darkly. "Don't do this, Hawkeye."

"I need to know the truth Cap, if you were ever my team mate, our leader or my friend, you need to tell me the truth NOW!"

He punches the door in frustration, the metal bends, leaving a perfect fist-print. "We were both out of our minds with grief, Clint. It was about consolation, comfort."

"So this is the new Avenger's grief-counciling policy!"

"Please let me explain-"

"NO! How can you explain the fact you couldn't even wait till my corpse cooled to jump into bed - _my bed! – _with MY partner."

"It wasn't like that –"

I can't listen to him any longer. Can't deal with the mental picture of them together.

Taking my coat, I dash down stairs. Nat is still sleeping in the other room, my heart aches looking at her. Part of me wants to shake her and demand she leave with me at once... Part of me is afraid she'll say no and stay with them – with HIM.

I'm too close, I can't see this objectively. I need distance, I need to get out of here.

- The Soldier:

World War II was the most horrific loss of American life in history, and for him, it's not a recent, not distant memory. The ideals were what got him through; to realize they've been forgotten, perverted... He does the only thing he can. He fights. He fights punching bags, thugs, aliens and neighborhood drug dealers. He used to take pleasure in the occasional thankful female... Until her. Now even that release has been taken from him. She has ruined him, he wonders how many other men she let live, as good as dead after the widows bite. He takes a drink and stares into the fire. Waiting. The alcohol does not burn his insides, the thought of her does.

The Spy:

The spy deals in the devil's details. The spy works human emotions and failings. Find a weakness and exploit it. The spy cannot afford to love.

It's been a week since Hawkeye left. Every hour he's gone - knowing why he's gone - is agony unlike any I've allowed myself to feel before.

I need to find a way to convince Clint that my grief-stricken night with Cap meant nothing and I'm his completely. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to convince him. I'm not sure that I can convince myself...

Pull yourself together Romanov, you've managed to remain emotionally detached for nearly 70 years, now suddenly you're compromised over not one, but _two _men. Stop thinking with your heart and just fix the goddamn problem.

Which brings me here, standing at Steve's door, an old brownstone in Brooklyn in the pouring rain, trying to summon the strength to knock. I don't want to but I don't have a choice. I'm desperate, and there's no one else to turn to.

I've managed to avoid Rogers pretty skillfully for the past ten days; he seems uncomfortable around me too. Whenever we see each other in passing, he looks at me so strangely, a surprised glance followed by something dark and raw. It makes my knees go weak just thinking of the intensity in those eyes.

I love Clint, he's my partner, my rock, my... Everything. So why do I keep dreaming of another man?

The heavy oak door opens, interrupting my thoughts. He is outlined against the warm glow inside.

"Are you planning on staying out there all night?"

That suddenly sounds like a really good idea. I can't do this. I start to turn away, but he catches my sleeve and guides me inside.

"Come in. You're going to catch your death out there." He ushers me inside and tosses a pillow in front of the roaring fireplace and gestures for me to sit.

"What are you doing here, Natasha?" His voice seems unusually gruff and thick.

"I need to talk to you."

"I assume it's concerning the same thing I've been needing to talk to you about for the past week." He stares at me pointedly. "But you've been avoiding me like the plague."

I flush in shame. "Barton knows... It's why he left."

"Yes. He confronted me a week ago. Apparently you talk in your sleep."

My eyes widen in horror.

"I tried to convince him he was off-base, but he knew.'" He hands me the towel, I take it and dry my hair, trying to ignore the smell of his skin on the material.

He walks over to the bar. "Would you like a drink? I'm afraid I don't have any vodka, but I keep some scotch around for company."

Interesting to think that the Cap entertains. He's a single American bachelor, I shouldn't be as surprised as I am. "No thanks. I have to go soon."

He pours a glass of amber liquid and I can't help admiring his lips as they touch the heavy crystal glass. "I've been watching you standing at my door for the last 20 minutes. Were you ever going to knock?'

I honestly don't know the answer to that question, so I stay silent.

"Here, have a sip." He hands me the glass. "It will warm you."

His gaze is doing that already, but I say nothing. I take the glass and manage a swallow of scotch – not bad. I take a second sip imagining I can taste his lips on the crystal.

Oh God, this was a mistake. I have to go, now. "This was a bad idea, Captain, I should go." I put down the glass and head for the study door.

"Stop right there." His voice paralyzes me. "Please Natasha, say what you came to say." His voice softens slightly, but there is something dark and dangerous in his usually gentle demeanor.

Fight or flight response is telling me to run away as far and fast as I possibly can - or to shoot him. Remember why you're here Natasha. "I need to talk to you about what happened that night, and about Barton."

He frowns slightly.

"It's my fault Steve, I know that. I was in pain and I used you. I may never regain Clint's trust, but at least I can apologize to you."

He studies his drink carefully. "An apology. Sure, Agent Romanov, _that's _what I want."

I rush to continue. "Barton...He left because he's in agony over what happened between us. I need to reassure him, but I don't think it's going to be enough."

He looks at me with coldly. "What do you want, Natasha?"

Poor Steve, what have I done to him to make this sweet, sincere guy into this icy creature radiating anger and frustration... Add this to your list of great deeds Romanov. He hates me, I'm sure of it now. That almost makes things easier, because this is the hard part, asking these two team mates to come together again.. "If you told him that what happened was a mistake, that you don't have any feelings for me, that it happened in a grief stricken moment and he has nothing to fear—"

A sharp, pained laugh cuts me off. "Natasha, if I could tell him that, don't you think I would have by now?"

And there it is. The truth. The one I couldn't admit to myself, raw and open between us. Waiting for a time like this to ooze through the cracks in the fragile walls we've built around ourselves, bringing them crumbling down around our feet.

The air around us changes, heating with every step he takes towards me. I back up slowly.

"I'd better go." He moves past me quickly and blocks the door. "No."

Normally I'd have any man who kept me from an exit disemboweled in less than 30 seconds. But this is Captain America after all... It would probably take more like two minutes. But I'm unwilling to hurt Steve in order to leave. And he knows this, I'm burned by the heat of his stare as he locks the study door, the snick of the deadbolt echoes loudly in my head.

Trapped. My heart leaps to my throat, pulse racing with fear and desire. I walk to his desk and lean against it for support. I look up and see Steve's reflection in the rain-streaked window in front of me. I watch as he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls them up over his muscular forearms. Strong fingers unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt and I work to keep by breathing even.

"I can't lie to Barton, or you, or myself anymore."

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hands. I can't think, can't fight, can't run.

I'm horrified by my body's response, a warm flush. I want this. Spies don't get emotionally compromised, but I want this. I WANT this, and it terrifies me.

His breath is hot and heavy in my ear as his hands move up my arms and circle my neck. He pulls me back till my body is flush against his. Oh God. He is so hard against me. Instinctively, my body melts against his, my head falls back against his chest.

A sigh of victory escapes his lips as he turns me to face him. "Tell me to stop." Piercing blue eyes search desperately for an answer.

"I...I can't do...this...Barton-"

His mouth descends on mine. He holds my chin in his hand and forces his tongue in to my mouth, as the other hand pulls my jacket from my shoulder. I moan into his mouth involuntarily. He breaks the kiss and turns me to face our reflection in the window.

"Clint doesn't love you - he worships you from afar, that's what he does, he watches things. He's put you on a pedestal, an odd pedestal to be sure – as long as sex is just part of the mission it's not sex. But now he hates you for falling off of it, for being human, as human as I am anyway." A pained laugh.

Why is he doing this? Why is he tormenting me with the truths and half-truths I don't want to hear? I choke back an angry cry and look down at the desk. His whispers continue.

"I cherish every part of you, Natasha. The spy, the warrior, the widow, the grieving lover, the wanton." With this last word, he reaches down my shirt, cupping my swollen breast possessively. I gasp as his fingers pinch my nipple, feeling it harden under the rough caress. "Especially the wanton," he whispers.

"Oh my God." This is no longer the sweet, grieving, guilt-ridden Captain America who comforted me. This man knows exactly what he wants from me. And he's determined to get it. I watch in the window as his fingers unbutton my shirt. I'm trapped by my own weakness. I need him to touch me more that I've ever wanted anything. A wanton in the truest sense of the word. My shirt falls to my feet. He unclasps my bra and slides it down my arms, leaving my breasts bare as he admires them in the window's reflection.

I want him to touch them, but instead he grips my arms above the elbows and pulls me to him. I gasp as I feel his erection, huge and hard against my ass and lower back.

"I've been waiting for you, Natasha. Oh god, how I've been patient." He whispers, his voice hoarse. "And now you've come to me."

"This...This isn't why I came." My voice is pleading. I can't remember why I came here anymore.

"No." His earnest blue eyes cut through all of my defenses. "But it's why you'll stay."

Tears threaten as I realize he's right. The decision, if I ever had one, has been made. Abandoned by my partner, I'm now trapped by a dark passion I can neither deny nor control.

I turn, moving my fingers along the buttons of his shirt. His powerful chest is soon exposed to me. I run my hands reverently along the smooth, perfectly sculpted expanse. I reach for his belt buckle, my hand sliding over the bulge in his SHIELD issue pants.

His hands suddenly fly from his sides and grab my wrists. A small cry escapes my lips.

What does he want from me? Sex? Escape? Redemption? Love? And can I give him any of those things without losing myself in the process?

He places my hands on the desk behind us. Kneeling in front of me, he rips at the buttons of my jeans. Yanking the offending garment down off my hips and over my shaking legs. He strips me quickly, till I am completely exposed to him. He kisses my thighs and bites the soft flesh lightly.

He rises and looks down at me, every part of me bared to his hungry eyes. He strokes my hair gently. "Natasha, you are so exquisite, so perfect —"

His gentle words give no warning of his next action. His fingers bite into my skin as lifts me toward sofa, tossing me on it like a rag-doll. I look up at him, shocked, a little frightened and aroused beyond words.

"I promised myself if you came back to me, I'd give you what you deserve."

What I deserve? I try to scramble off the couch, but he subdues me easily. Pushing my legs apart and kneeling between them, he pushes me back against the couch.

"Don't move, Agent Romanov." An order I dare not disobey.

His hands skim over my torso lightly, barely touching me. I need him to touch me, I need more, I need him, his anger, his passion and his love. Whatever he demands in return I will give willingly.

As thoroughly as inventorying a plan of attack, Steve catalogs the source of my every pleasure with his tongue. His lips find my swollen clit and he slides it between his teeth. White-hot pleasure consumes me, forcing a tormented moan from my lips. Holding still becomes impossible and my hips rotate against him. "Please, I.. I need to—"

"To what?" His blue eyes bore into mine forcing the words from my unwilling throat.

"To come." I whisper, "Please Steve, I want you to make me come."

He gives a short chuckle of victory. Then he takes the swollen nub between his lips and sucks hard.

I explode, I dig my fingers into his scalp as the world around me ceases to exist. As the spasms subside and I float back to reality, I'm struck by a sudden realization. If Clint needs to watch and protect me, then Steve needs to possess me.

And some warped part of me wants both men to have their wish.

Cap quickly undresses himself as I shiver with anticipation. He opens the trousers and boxers, freeing his huge and throbbing cock.

He gathers me in his arms, supporting my ass with one hand, and holding the back of my neck with the other. I can hear his ragged breathing over the pounding of my own heart. My legs wrap around his waist and he positions me above him. Waiting.

"Tell me you want me." His eyes are hungry and begging.

"Yes." My voice is quivers with desire. I need him inside me more than I need oxygen.

"Say it, Natasha!" How does he make it sound like an order and a plea at the same time?

"Yes! Steve, I want you!" The words are torn from my throat.

With a desperate cry he lowers me on to his cock, driving it inside me. Oh god, he's huge! Filling me so completely I whimper in pleasure and pain. Harder and harder he works me, working my slight frame back and forth on his cock, lifting me off till I moan with disappointment, then forcing me back down on the full length of his organ. I'm so distracted by the jarring explosions of pleasure I barely realize he has my head tilted back and is forcing his tongue in my mouth. My body feels taut and weightless, forced down on his shaft again and again until with a final indecent cry, my orgasm overtakes me. Oh God, it feels like it's never going to stop! He has me wrapped tightly in this embrace, and just when I feel the waves of pleasure start to ebb, he drives his orgasm into me groaning deeply, his hips suddenly thrust in a series of deep frenzied, jerking movements, his orgasm re-igniting mine. It seems impossible for him to still be standing after that, but he is, cradling me easily in his arms, still sheathed in my body, the occasional spasms of his cock make me whimper.

He waits till I stop shaking, then he lays me out on the rug before the fireplace and curls up behind me. We watch the fire while his fingers trail along the slopes and curves of my side reverently, a strange counterpoint to his brutal seduction. "My girl." His whisper is so soft I don't think he meant for me to hear it. Regardless, I cannot tell him what he wants to hear so I remain silent.

"Stay with me tonight... Please." My throat closes.

He seems to take my silence as assent and rises, lifting me in his arms. Effortlessly he carries me to his bedroom. I try to protest, but he covers my lips with a finger. "Shhh. Tomorrow. We'll get this all sorted out tomorrow." He kisses me as we reach his bedroom. He slides me under the covers and quickly joins me. He turns me on my side and molds his large frame to my small one. His breath slows and evens out as he falls in to a deep sleep.

I'm glad I'm facing away from him, I'm glad he can't see the silent tears running down my cheeks.

A terrible crushing realization has dawned too late, I'm in love with Steve Rogers, and even worse, I'm pretty sure he loves me too.

**Sniper **

Tears indistinguishable from rain on his cheeks, the sniper on his perch peers through the windows of the brownstone, observing his love in the arms of another man. Hawkeye emerges from his snipers crouch. The time for watching is over.

Finis

Thanks to Ink-and- Ash and DJ Liopleurodon for all their awesome feedback and beta work.

Where do we go from here? Or should I just leave them all angsty… I'm taking feedback into consideration as to how this should fall out. I swear I'm really a clint/nat shipper at heart – I have no idea why I needed to torture him like this, the muse made me do it!


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